


After the Wolf is Dead

by serendipitysnape



Category: The Great Library Series - Rachel Caine
Genre: Anxiety Attacks, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-06
Updated: 2019-10-06
Packaged: 2020-11-07 23:34:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20825651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/serendipitysnape/pseuds/serendipitysnape
Summary: Captain Niccolo Santi realizes that Christopher is not the only one who has pushed down his pain, his shame, and his rage at the damage the wolf has left on the heart and spirit of his beloved. One dark night that pain escapes him, and he finds himself caught in the jaws of an invisible wolf.





	After the Wolf is Dead

_"In bocca al lupo, Christopher."_  
_"Crepi il lupo, dear Nic."_

Some dark nights, when the rage festering beneath his skin threatened to bubble over and out and set his breath aflame, Niccolo Santi would get up out of the bed he and Christopher Wolfe shared together, and prowl through the hallways of their tiny apartment. The front door, padlocked with stolen library-grade steel, no easy access there. Windows, Nic grinned savagely when he thought about intruders entering through the windows of their third floor unit, one of Chris’s inventions had been adapted to immediately blind any fool who sought to reach them that way. He would handle them after that. He passed through the kitchen, checked the bathroom, and made two full circles before finding his way back to their bedroom. Nic even forced himself to look in the closet and under the bed just in case (not that he would ever admit to that to anyone) before he took up his position between the door and the figured curled beneath the twisted sleep coverings. Even in sleep his love had no peace.

Looking down at the man who had inexplicably become the other half of himself, Nic growled aloud, he couldn’t help it. Christopher’s limbs were taut and trembling, his eyes darting quickly from side to side beneath his closed lids. His hands clenching and unclenching on nothing, while sweat made his dark hair cling to the sides of his face in unattractive clumps. Dios mio, how he loved this man!

Christopher moaned, and whispered something too quickly for him to catch. The words may have been in Greek maybe in Latin, Nic leaned forward and smoothed a few strands of hair out of his lovers eyes and off the flushed skin of his forehead. Chris was too far into the darkness to hear him, but he whispered anyway, “Mi amore. I am here. You are safe. You are not alone. I am here.” Christopher whimpered, shying away from the touch of skin on skin, even his touch. Chris’ mouth moved again and this time in a language Nic could understand. “No more. Please I beg you, no more.”

Nic tasted bile, and as gorge rose in his throat he forced himself to breathe in and out, slow and deep, to steady his heart rate. Nausea made his stomach twist, but thoughts of the creatures that had taken the man he loved away from him, that had carved up his flesh and shattered his bones and bled him nearly dry, these thoughts made the rage in Nic’s blood rise up and threaten to burst out along with the dinner he had choked down hours ago.

Anger. So red hot and powerful that he let go of the man in the bed and took a step back, panting heavily. There was nowhere for his rage to escape to. No release from the nightmare that plagued both of them each and every night since God had seen fit to bring him home. Nic wanted to hunt down the wolves that had hurt Christopher. He wanted to squeeze their throats harder and harder with his bare hands until he saw the lights in their eyes dim in front of him. Over and over he heard the last words that Chris had spoken to him, “Crepi il lupo, dear Nic.” Kill the wolf. Oh how he wanted nothing less.

But the wolf that had tried so hard to tear apart the man he loved, that wolf was dead. The front door was three times padlocked, and the windows, sealed. This apartment they shared was as safe as he, Captain Niccolo Santi, could seek to make it. And yet still each night he watched as Christopher fought on a battlefield where he could not follow, fighting an enemy he could not fight. 

The pain inside of him pulsed. Once, twice. It threatened to overwhelm him as he stared down at the bed, their bed. His mind was a cacophony of pain and shame. Pain for his helplessness to really do much of anything, pain for the weight Chris carried that he could not take from him or truly share. Shame for the way he did not save Chris during that terrible year after he was taken. Shame for the way he did not save Chris the second time he had been taken. Shame for the way Chris had never given up hope, had whispered his name, dreamed of him, prayed to him, and he, Niccolo, had not come. Shame for the way it unmoored him when he stared too long at the man in the bed who looks like his lover, but now smells of fear and despair, the man who wears the tattered skin of his lover, the same skin he once mapped inch by inch with fingers, lips and tongue. The man who now startles when Nic tries to take his hand without warning. Shame for feeling as though they have both lost something precious, something rare and of immeasurable value. Shame that he wonders now if Chris will ever be what he once was. Shame that his heart aches selfishly for his own loss when his lover is trapped in a nightmare from which he will never again. Shame that he, a strong and powerful Captain of the High Garda is absolutely helpless in the mouth of this invisible, ghostly wolf.

Grief overtakes him, and somehow Niccolo finds himself on his knees beside the bed. The limbs which carried him into eight, no, nine war zones have suddenly refused to carry him for even one more moment. The tops of his thighs are wet, Nic runs his palms over the glistening skin and looks around in surprise. Then it hits him. He is crying. Somehow this realization is the last straw that stood between Nic’s paltry attempt at composure. A part of him wanted to laugh, if Chris were awake he would probably have a literary quote that would properly summarize the moment. As it stands, the snot that was currently running down Nic’s face and pooling on the tip of his chin is just about as poetic as it sounds.

Nic does laugh then. He throws back his head and lets loose the biggest belly laugh that can escape his chest between the suffocating wetness that is his tears. One, then another, then another. He embraces the wildness of his laughter, imagines better times, times in their younger days when he and Chris, both postulants yet, would pack picnic lunches and sneak away to eat homemade sandwiches together by the lake. Chris’s dry humor never failed to make him laugh (although Nic is positive that Chris did not intend any of his comments to be quite so entertaining), but something about Chris’ quiet confidence, his excitement about knowledge, his earnest pursuit of learning and passion for the library, it enslaved Nic’s heart. And when Nic tickled Chris mercilessly in retaliation, seeking to draw a gurgle of laughter from his stern, serious scholar, the joy that erupted was a sign that Chris was offering his own heart right back to him. They had rolled around in that meadow for a while causing an incredible ruckus, until Christopher had remembered that postulants who might one day be scholars had to maintain a sense of decorum. Present-day Nic felt his stomach clench at the memory, his hands wrapped around himself in false comfort, the laughter giving way to the pressure building around his abused heart. He threw his head back and keened wildly, a terrible piercing, painful sound. _Mi amore._ Niccolo felt the moment the pain broke and the guttural sobbing that ripped from his chest made him feel like he had actually swallowed the wolf that he was not able to kill. Now he was choking on it, fur, claws, gristle and all.

The stem of tears that flowed over his cheeks did not slow as Nic rocked back on his heels, the hollow feeling in his chest emphasized by the pin pricks of needles shredding him from the inside. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t see. All he felt was pain, overwhelming pain as he gave himself over to the grief that had been festering inside of him.

_Hands._ Someone had grasped him by his hands and was holding his shaking extremities between their own. No, Nic shuddered, his hands were dirty, weak, his hands had not protected Christopher when he had needed him. Ugly. His hands were ugly.

_Shoulders._ A weight settled over his shoulders and Nic wondered if this is what death felt like when the angel came for you, if this is what Christopher had felt like when he was taken from this very house they still shared. Nic felt warm and cold and hot all at once and sweat poured down the line between his shoulder blades.

_Face._ He felt breath, an exhalation. Moisture against his skin. Fingers softly cupping his cheek, thumbs wiping the tears from his eyes. His grief was boundless, there was no comfort for his pain. He didn’t deserve it.

_Lips._ And then a hardness, a forehead pressed firmly against his own. A mans finger brushing over his open lips as he panted. Thin, dry lips pressing firmly against his own. Nic was drowning in sensation, it was too much. He pushed himself back, away, away from the offer of comfort, but the pain continued to pour out of him and he was helpless to make it stop.

“Nic, Niccolo, my love, mi amore.”

A voice cut through the pain. Christopher. Nic threw back his head and howled. No. Chris was hurt. They had locked him up again. Chris should not be comforting him. He had not stopped it. He should have protected Chris. He should have. The voice kept talking. Had never stopped talking. Paid no heed to whatever Nic was muttering aloud, or was it in his head. He wasn’t sure anymore.

“I’m safe now. It’s not your fault. We are together again. Even the children are safe. We will keep them safe. I’m here. We will survive.”

His fault. It was his fault. Nic should have known Jess would act. It was his job. He should have done something. Stopped the boy. He had broken his promise and Christopher had been taken from him again. No amount of tears seemed adequate.

“My love, the wolf is dead. You killed it. And we are still alive.”

Nic took a shaky breath. He inhaled, and the smell of old books and mint tea filled his nose, pure Christopher. Unmistakably Christopher the man, not the dream. He inhaled again and the scent grounded him in reality. “I’m sorry,” he said. The words came out in a whisper, more broken then actual words. “I’m so sorry.” Then they were standing, and Christopher was wrapped in his arms, where he belonged. Nic could feel the tremors running through Christopher’s body, pressed so closely together against his own. “Im sorry.” He said it again. And again. He whispered it into his hair. Ran his hands gently over Christopher’s back, trying not to twitch when his fingers touched the sensitive, raised flesh that was scars, left by the wolf. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” He could not say the words enough.

Chris was crying now, his long fingers wound tight into Niccolo’s shirt. But unlike Nic, he made no sound, his shoulders merely shook in silent sobs as he let Nic hold him. When he finally spoke, his voice was pure Chris, dry and direct.

“No, you idiot.” The scholar made a fist and drove it into Nic’s chest. “You saved me.” Christopher punctuated each word with a blow, “You. Saved. Me.” Then Chris kissed him. Snot and tears and all. A real kiss. A welcome home kiss. An I’m back kiss. An I missed you kiss. A kiss that said I love you, I forgive you, I’m home now, we are together, the wolf is dead, the children are safe, and we will surive. A kiss that told Niccolo Santi all of those things and more.

The shame of his own weakness was still there, a little bit left hiding beneath the curve of his rib cage. But the grief was no longer overwhelming. Chris was home. He was safe. He was in Nic’s arms where he belonged. “Tesoro mio.” _My treasure._ Nic wound his fingers into Christopher’s hair and deepened the kiss. He inhaled that unique scent that was Christopher, and the taste of him overwhelmed the fear and the anger and the pain. The were together, that’s all that mattered. “Amore mio.” _My love._

Nic gasped for breath as Chris ground their hips together and wrapped one long leg around his thigh in obvious invitation. Words were not nearly enough. Nic sighed with need and want, “Cuore mio.”_My heart._

Chris groaned, and the sound went straight to Nic’s groin. It had been a long time since Chris had felt safe enough to desire intimacy. A long time since he had wanted more than comfort. Nic broke the kiss and framed Christopher’s face with his hands panting slightly. “Are you sure –” The wicked grin he received as response cut off whatever else Nic thought he might say, but he needed to be sure. “Darling, I can stop at anytime.”

“No.” Christopher’s eyes were dark and wide as they met his own. Nic could see the fear, the pain and the shame staring back at him, but he also saw the strength, the stubbornness, the snark, and the love. Chris smiled, a small private smile, meant just for him, “Don’t ever stop.”

The last of the broken pieces inside of him settled, and Nic was overwhelmed by the peace that suddenly filled him. He wrapped Christopher in his arms until he could lift him comfortably and carry him the last few steps to the bed they shared. As he laid him reverently onto the mattress Nic thought his heart would burst with the love he felt.

“No,” he said, pulling Chris up for a kiss that was more like a promise. “Never.” And he didn’t. Not for a long time after.


End file.
